you could make a long arm, and haul it off the parent tintack? Thanks.
We make progress. We make progress."

"We shall jolly well make it out of the window," said Mike, spooning up
tea from a paperbag with a postcard, "if a sort of young Hackenschmidt
turns up and claims the study. What are you going to do about it?"

"Don't let us worry about it. I have a presentiment that he will be an
insignificant-looking little weed. How are you getting on with the
evening meal?"

"Just ready. What would you give to be at Eton now? I'd give something
to be at Wrykyn."

"These school reports," said Psmith sympathetically, "are the very
dickens. Many a bright young lad has been soured by them. Hello, what's
this, I wonder."

A heavy body had plunged against the door, evidently without a suspicion
that there would be any resistance. A rattling of the handle followed,
and a voice outside said, "Dash the door!"

"Hackenschmidt!" said Mike.

"The weed," said Psmith. "You couldn't make a long arm, could you, and
turn the key? We had better give this merchant audience. Remind me later
to go on with my remarks on school reports. I had several bright things
to say on the subject."

Mike unlocked the door, and flung it open. Framed in the entrance was a